


Swete Sone

by Empy (Empyreus)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Battle, Blood, Canonical Character Death, Children, Dreams, F/M, Fear, Gen, Mother-Son Relationship, Motherhood, Pain, Prophetic Dreams, Sad, Sleep, Soldiers, Visions, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-31
Updated: 2006-10-31
Packaged: 2018-03-10 04:01:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3275930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empyreus/pseuds/Empy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dead are returning tonight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swete Sone

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed ficlet, written just before midnight on Hallowe'en. Very much inspired by the Mediaeval Baebes song of the same name.

_~~  
Swete sone, thy faire face  
Droppet all on blode  
-Mediaeval Baebes - "Swete Sone"-  
~~_

The dead are returning tonight. I always know when it happens, and it seems a sheen of ice on the air in late autumn.

The peasants who live out on the wide plains, on the Pelennor Fields, celebrate the end of their year now, and I can see the fires from my high perch in the Citadel. I have lit fires of my own, short squat candles of beeswax to remind me of the light that wanes steadily.

I cannot sleep this night, and toss and turn restless in the wide bed. My beloved sleeps by my side, calm as a babe, his face free of the worry lines that are beginning to etch themselves into his forehead. They say he has the Long Sight, and it is true, but his sight is that of mind alone. My legacy is unlike and yet like it, for mine lies in the heart. It does not foretell in plain words, and ofttimes it proves unwise to heed too closely the counsel it offers.

When at last I slip into a fitful slumber, the rest is short, for I fall into dreams of war and pain. I walk among rows of soldiers, my bare feet slipping in mire and gore, and I know not what I seek until I see him. It is a grown man, but I recognize him. Which mother would not recognize her son? My firstborn, my jewel, the apple of his father's eye, grown from gangling boy into a man standing tall and strong.

Blood. There is blood on his face and on his hands, the pale nerveless hand that clutches at his chest, groping at the crude arrows that have pierced it. I feel the pain as keenly as though I were the one wounded, and as he lifts his head and our eyes meet, it is as though the world falls away from under my feet.

Fallen in battle. Where is this battle and what was his part?

I start awake, thinking I am falling still into the abyss, and clutch at the bedding. My heart beats all too fast. I know I will find no rest until I reassure myself that what I have seen is not true, though I know well that it cannot be. My eldest son is but nine years of age, not even fit to be called a youth, let alone a man.

Denethor does not wake as I rise, nor does he stir when I right the bedclothes that have slipped to bare his side. The room is not overly warm even though the hearth is full of embers. I envy my husband for being able to sleep so undisturbed, but I know that this is a rare boon. There is much that wears at him in his waking hours, and it is well that he at least is able to rest.

 

My footfalls seem to lack their echo as I rush down the halls to the room where my sons now sleep. I barely notice this, so intent am I on assuring myself that I have only fallen prey to an unsettling dream. Surely I am a distressing sight, my hair undone and my shift flowing about me like unsettled mist, but I care not.

The room is darkened, lit only by flickering embers, but my tread is sure as I walk toward Boromir's bed. A wooden shield and toy sword lean on the bed, and a strange fear stabs at my heart as I see them, a fear only made worse by the willow-wood arrows that lie scattered across the floor. As I lift my gaze to look at his sleeping form, the sick feeling in my heart lessens somewhat, but it does not leave me. His face is calm and unmarred, and the thin chest that rises and falls under the covers has yet to see wounds. As I settle my hand on his forehead, sweeping away a lock of dark hair, he smiles in his sleep.

He is there, hale and well and a child still, but the fear will not relent. I straighten up and walk over to the high window, feeling restless and unsettled and longing for fresh cold air to breathe. The view from the window is fair, and the White City lies at my feet, frost-white in the night. Lanterns line the streets, but they are but specks of warm light along the winding stone walls. The air seems colder despite the heat of the dying fire, and so lost in my bitter reveries am I that I start when I feel a hand gripping mine. Faramir. My little one, only four years of age and sparrow-frail. His gaze is sleep-dimmed, but not enough to entirely conceal pain.

"I dreamt of it also," he whispers, his voice small and hushed, as though he fears he might wake his brother.

This simple phrase stuns and pains me far more than a cry of anguish would. I have long feared it, and now it proves true: he has inherited the Long Sight. What gift is that to give to a child? He cannot understand it, and so it pains him needlessly and constantly, not giving him rest to mature into it. I kneel down to embrace him, and find I have no words of comfort to give. My mouth will not form the words, and my heart fears now more than ever that what I have seen will come to pass. All I can do is shake my head, though I do not know if I am trying to deny the statement he has made or if I am trying to deny to myself that he has the bitter gift of prophecy.

The dead have indeed returned this night, but they are not the long dead. Nay, they are the future dead, and all the worse is their coming.


End file.
